Buck Hawk, Detective

Buck Hawk, Detective
or
The Messenger Boy's Fortune
by Edward L. Wheeler
Deadwood Dick Library #58
1882-1888 Beadle & Adams


CHAPTER I.
AN ARTFUL DODGER.
"Can you furnish me with a trusty messenger boy for a couple of
hours-- one, mind you, who is reliable in every sense of the word, and
quick-strung, in the bargain?"
This question was addressed to the clerk at the receiving window of a
branch office of the Western Union Telegraph Co. in Philadelphia, one
morning previous to the opening of the Bi-Centennial celebration in the
Quaker City.
The inquirer was a portly man of perhaps fifty years, well-dressed, and
the possessor of a short-cropped gray beard, steely-gray eyes, of
hawkish intensity, and hair to match his beard.
He had the appearance of being a man who was well-to-do, and who
had no cause to complain at the way the world used him.

"All our messengers are out, but if you will wait a moment, probably
some of them will be in, and I can supply your wants," the clerk said,
gazing at the inquirer through a pair of green goggles.
In the course of ten minutes a messenger-boy entered.
He was a strong, sturdy lad of fifteen, with an open, honest face, a
shrewd peering pair of eyes, and wore an expression of good humor.
He was attired in the neat regulation uniform of a W. U. messenger boy,
and was rather dashing looking, with his cap cocked a little to one side
of his curly head.
"Hillo, Billy!" he cried, tossing his book to the clerk. "What's the next
racket? Made a quarter out o' last trip. Jest connect me wi' another sech
a job, ef ye please."
The clerk looked over at the man who was waiting.
"Here's a boy that will be likely to suit you, sir." be said; whereupon the
gentleman came forward, and gave the boy a criticising glance.
"What's your name?" he asked, sharply.
"Turk, sir," was the prompt answer.
"Turk?" the gentleman exclaimed, in surprise. "Turk what?"
"Dunno. Reckon nothin' but Turk, from Black-cat Alley. Never was
called anything else."
"Strange name. Well, my boy, I am about to engage your services for a
little while, providing you know where Jerome St. Clair lives, on North
Seventeenth street."
"Dunno. Give's the number, and I can root out the rest."
"Very well. What will be the charges, clerk?"

The clerk named the amount, which was promptly paid, after which
Turk and his employer left the office, and proceeded to Walnut street,
near Eighth.
Here, numerous rows of houses have for years been converted into
offices, which are occupied by perhaps as many different trades and
professions as there are rooms.
Into the second story front room of one of these buildings, the
gentleman ushered Turk, and bade him be seated, until he returned;
after which be went down-stairs.
The apartment was meagerly furnished, the floor being covered with
oilcloth, and a desk, several office chairs, a few pictures on the wall
forming the remainder of the furniture.
Having nothing else to do, Turk amused himself with looking at the
pictures, which were of men whose faces were anything but to their
credit.
"Sporters, or I'm a shad!" the boy muttered. "That feller wi' the eyes cut
bias, looks like Skin the Slugger, who got ninety in Moya, for liftin'
pocketbooks. Wonder what sort of a rooster keeps this ranch? Must be
'quaint wi' the rascals o' Phila."
Jerome St. Clair, as he had introduced himself to the boy, soon
returned.
"Well, I'm ready for you," he said, handing a sealed letter to Turk.
"You are to take that letter to my residence, and deliver it to my
daughter. If she is not in, you can give it to some one of the servants,
who will give you a package, which you are to hasten back with, and
deliver to me at the Broad street depot. You will find me there in the
waiting-room. Be spry, now, and I will make you a present on your
return."
"But give us yer directions," demanded Turk. "Got a number, hain't
ye?"

"Certainly. Here is my card, which will enable you to find my residence
without trouble. Here is some money for street-car fare. Now, then, be
off."
And Turk needed no second warning.
Already gigantean air-castles were building before his mind's eye in
anticipation of the promised reward for alacrity.
The card read:
JEROME ST CLAIR. DIAMOND MERCHANT,
No.-- N'th 17th Street,
(Private House.) Ê Philad'a, Pa.
And it is needless to say that the messenger boy was not long in landing
in front of the imposing mansion which bore the diamond-dealer's
name upon the door-plate.
Accustomed to ringing door-bells, he gave the knob a tremendous pull,
which speedily brought a frowsy-beaded